


Love When Love's Invisible

by elysiumwaits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Breaking Up & Making Up, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pet Names, Reunion Sex, Scott is a Good Friend, Steter Week, Steter Week 2019, Top Peter Hale, like actually more than there really should be tbh, mentions of dialectical behavior therapy, mentions of:, or at least he tries his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 02:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20038417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: Stiles just wanted the summer before his last year of college to be quiet and peaceful. Now he’s been accidentally magically bonded to Peter Hale, which is absolutely a problem - they’ve got history.--“This is the metaphysical version of being handcuffed together and losing the key, Scott,” he says, trying very hard to speak in a normal, indoor-appropriate tone, rather than the yelling he would really rather resort to. Stiles waves an arm in Peter’s direction. “I can’t go fifty feet from him without feeling like I just stuck a fork in an outlet!”





	Love When Love's Invisible

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Rick Springfield’s “I’ll Miss That Someday” which is honestly one of the most Steter songs I’ve ever heard, though “Our Ship’s Sinking” (also by Rick Springfield) is also a good one. Also, Rick Springfield - who is famous for the 80’s hit “Jessie’s Girl” - is an amazing musician who is still making awesome music, just saying. 
> 
> So according to the Teen Wolf wiki, Peter is actually in his 40s, but looks younger because of the longer lifespan of a werewolf. So his age here is pretty wishy-washy.
> 
> I waffled over the “Light Dom/sub” tag versus a full “Dom/sub” tag. Ultimately it’s not a full scene, even though Peter displays dominant behavior, but he will absolutely stop the second Stiles says ‘stop,’ and Stiles is very much on board with everything that’s happening. They also, in my head but not explicitly stated, follow the stoplight system.
> 
> You can tell the porn was a bit hard for me in this one, for some reason. Didn’t come easy, that’s for sure. I wanted there to be more, but I have a PWP planned so maybe we can all get our dirty smut fix from that instead of this, which is like 7k words of foreplay.

**** “It’s not my fault!” Scott holds his hands up placatingly, trying to fend Stiles off as best as he can.

Stiles gives him another solid  _ thwack  _ with the throw pillow. “‘You’re the magic one, Stiles!’” he yells in a high-pitched voice. “‘You touch the magic glowing orb, Stiles! What could possibly happen, Stiles?!’” Every sentence is punctuated with another smack from the pillow that Scott can’t seem to avoid - Stiles had learned way back when that hitting Scott with his hand was like hitting a brick wall, but more than a few pillows have been sacrificed over the years in the name of working out some best-friend-borne aggression.

“I don’t even sound like that!” Scott says, and bats the pillow away again. He is, however, purposely deepening his voice now, though, and Stiles is absolutely counting it as a victory. “I’m sorry, Christ, Stiles, I’m sorry, stop hitting me! I didn’t know it would do anything, and I didn’t know that Peter would be involved.”

The mention of Peter’s name obliterates any positive work Scott’s apology has done toward putting him back into Stiles’ good graces. Stiles lets out a sound through his teeth in rage that defies any kind of label and goes to smack Scott with the pillow once more, only to have it snatched out of his hand.

“I am  _ most certainly  _ involved, yes,” Peter says, tossing the pillow back onto the couch. “My throw pillows, however, are innocent bystanders in this, so kindly  _ stop  _ them before they rip.”

Stiles takes a moment to turn his head and glare at Peter. He points, accusing, and then visibly and forcibly restrains himself from saying a whole lot of unflattering things that would reveal a little too much about the both of them to Scott (and, presumably, the audience of the rest of the pack outside in the hallway - damn werewolf hearing). He breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring, and turns back to Scott. 

He loves Scott, he reminds himself. Scott has a heart of gold, and Scott has no idea why this whole mess is as bad as it is. 

“This is the metaphysical version of being handcuffed together and _ losing the key, _ Scott,” he says, trying very hard to speak in a normal, indoor-appropriate tone, rather than the yelling he would really rather resort to - he loves Scott, yes, but sometimes talking to him (much like hitting him) is like talking to a brick wall. Stiles waves an arm in Peter’s direction. “I can’t go  _ fifty feet _ from  _ him _ without feeling like I just stuck a fork in an outlet!”

“I actually did stick a fork in an outlet as a child,” Peter adds, and Stiles notes with a bit of glee that the werewolf sounds pretty terse himself, voice strained even though he’s not as emotional as Stiles. Scott will probably miss that, but it gives Stiles a little bit of satisfaction to know that Peter is just as bothered as Stiles is. “And honestly, I would say it was a significantly more pleasant experience than what this magic is putting us through.”

Scott, for his part, is edging toward the apartment door, and has very clearly put himself between Stiles and the pillows on the couch. Never let it be said that he can’t learn. “Look, I know it will be uncomfortable, but as long as you guys stay together, we can figure this out.” He’s using his soothing voice. Stiles  _ hates _ his soothing voice, because it is pretty much the exact same tone as his patronizing voice. “Deaton’s back in a couple of days, Peter has a big library, I’m sure we can get this squared away by the end of the week.”

“By the end of the…” Stiles closes his eyes and breathes in, then out again, and counts to five before he blinks and looks at Scott. His college-clinic-counselor would be so proud. “Okay. By the end of the week. We’ll just… make it work.”

“I know you don’t like each other.” Scott looks between Stiles and Peter. Stiles very specifically does not look at Peter, but can feel Peter look at  _ him _ . “You can suck it up for a couple days. Work out some differences, it’ll be good for you two  _ and _ the pack.”

“‘Work out some differences,’” Peter repeats flatly.

“Yes,” Scott says, and oh, god, that’s his earnest face. He’s also stopped heading for the door, which means he smells an opportunity for ‘pack-building.’ “You guys are the best tactical minds we have, and it would be great if you could figure out how to spend time together so there’s less conflict in pack meetings. I know you guys had that big fight that summer I was in Argentina, but that was like three years ago.”

“‘Spend…  _ time together. _ ’” Peter is definitely, one hundred percent looking at Stiles now, Stiles can feel it like a laser driving through the back of his skull. It’s a prey-sense, he figured out a few years ago, a natural instinct to making sure he knew when he had the attention of the big bad predator in the room. “Stiles, Scott would like us to  _ spend time together  _ to  _ work out our differences,  _ because of a quote-unquote ‘big fight’ we had three years ago.”

Stiles grinds his teeth, and turns just enough to glare at Peter again with all of the fury he can muster. “I can  _ hear _ him, Peter. I don’t need a play-by-play of the conversation that’s happening right in front of me.”

“I do, apparently,” Peter snaps. “Because I’m pretty sure we spent a lot of that particular summer ‘working out our differences’ already.”

Stiles flushes. No, he does  _ not _ need Peter to give them away right here, not with the pack in the hallway and Scott attempting to do his conflict resolution schtick when Stiles can’t walk more than fifty feet away from Peter. “ _ Stop _ talking,” he says. 

“I was reading,” Scott goes on, obviously confused by their exchange but thankfully not willing to read more into it. Stiles starts looking around near him, hands itching for something he can throw. “About interpersonal communication. You need to find common ground, something to bond over.”

“‘ _ Common ground _ ,’ Stiles,” Peter says, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “‘Something to  _ bond _ over!’”

“Oh!” Scott brightens. “We can go over G.I.V.E. conversations again, remember, with the validation?”

Alright, that’s about as far as Stiles’ college-clinic-counseling sessions will get him in the patience and stress management departments. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feels one hell of a headache coming on. “Oh my god, Scott, I really need you to stop talking dialectical behavior therapy at me. I’m gonna set that book on fire, I swear to god. Just… go home. We will try  _ very hard _ not to kill each other.”

“I really don’t think that murder will be an issue,” Peter mutters.

“Don’t  _ fucking tempt me, _ Peter,” Stiles bites out.

Peter gives him that smirk, the one that says he thinks he’s got Stiles right where he wants him. It’s a mask - it’s always a mask, some illusion of control, a bluff, plain and simple. “I don’t think  _ temptation _ is on the menu either.”

Stiles makes the conscious decision not to respond to that, as much as he wants to. This is not a conversation he wants to have with Scott as a witness, after all - this airing of grievances will be best done with Peter and Stiles, alone.

“Go home, Scott.” Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose again, squeezes his eyes shut for a brief second against the pounding starting up behind his left eye. “We’ll have a  _ conversation _ , alright.”

Scott looks a strange mix of relieved, confused, concerned, and put-out. Conflict resolution and mediation has definitely become his  _ thing _ in the past couple years, but at this point, Stiles might actually attempt to smother him. Or let Peter kill him and deal with it after a nap, he’s not sure. 

“The validation is important in G.I.V.E. conversations,” Scott says after a moment, but he’s walking to the door, so there’s that at least. “You have to remember to validate. The feelings, though, not necessarily the actions.”

“You should  _ really _ leave,” Peter says before Stiles can, and opens the apartment door pointedly. “Before I start considering an  _ invalid action _ and murder  _ does _ become an option _ . _ ”

“I’ll call and check in tomorrow, it won’t be so bad!” Scott says - or at least, that’s what Stiles thinks Scott says, considering Peter shuts the door in his face about halfway through.

After the ruckus that was this complete disaster of an evening, the silence in Peter’s apartment is both refreshing and oppressive, a strange dichotomy. It’s nice to be able to breathe without Scott there, simply because that could have easily launched into another round of Scott-tries-to-make-everyone-communicate-in-a-healthy-fashion, and if Stiles has to even  _ look _ at that glitter “Talking Stick” of his again, he’s going to shove it up Scott’s nose. And while some of the “pack-building” exercises that Scott digs up are entertaining and actually, you know, helpful when it comes to their slightly dysfunctional pack, the resentful and volatile tension between Stiles and Peter is not something that needs to be hashed out with Scott as the mediator. 

Scott has  _ no idea _ what a scarring event that would be for pretty much everyone involved, because Scott has  _ no idea _ just where that tension came from. 

He thinks he knows. He doesn’t know.

Scott and Stiles have a very clear boundary of “please don’t give me details” when it comes to their intimate lives, and Scott has  _ no clue _ what kind of worms this particular can holds.

Stiles doesn’t move from the living room, waits for it. Just like he expects, Peter’s the one who finally breaks the tense silence in the apartment. “You haven’t told him.”

And just like that, Stiles is entirely too sober for this whole situation. He rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand through his hair - it’s getting long, he needs a cut, honestly - and then heads for the kitchen where he knows Peter keeps the wine. 

Peter, of course, follows. Leaving well enough alone has never been his style, after all, he’s got to pick and poke at whatever wounds he finds. “You  _ haven’t told him _ ,” he repeats, like it’s supposed to mean something to Stiles. “I wondered why it never came up. I was absolutely sure that either your father or Scott was going to show up and threaten me.”

“Why would I tell him, Peter? And why the  _ hell _ would I tell my dad?” Stiles snaps, helps himself to a glass from the cabinet and the blackberry wine chilling in the refrigerator. “I was under the impression it didn’t mean anything, so it wasn’t worth telling him or anyone else. You made that pretty fucking clear, I think.”

He’s pouring himself a generous glass when Peter reaches and grabs the neck of the bottle, stopping him. “You’re a lightweight and I’m not tucking your drunk ass into bed later.”

Stiles turns his head to glare at Peter, who just gives him that goddamn infuriating  _ smirk  _ back. That expression isn’t from any kind of mirth or amusement - that’s the one that Peter wears when he’s using it as a mask, when he’s trying to convince everyone in the room including himself that he’s got this situation under control. It’s that same bluff, and Stiles is so sick of seeing it aimed in his direction.

“I’m twenty-two,” Stiles grumbles as Peter pulls the bottle from his grasp. He can’t argue too much, he didn’t pay for the wine, after all. Of all the hills to die on in this mess, blackberry wine probably isn’t the one to choose. “I was nineteen the last time you poured me a glass of wine, Peter, three years of college has done wonders for my alcohol tolerance.”

“I really doubt alcohol will make this a better experience for either of us.” Peter puts the wine back into the fridge - he has it for the taste, Stiles knows, considering that he can’t get drunk off of it. Stiles can, though, which is what he supposes Peter is referring to, as lightweight nineteen-year-old Stiles had definitely been a handful.

Twenty-two-year-old Stiles, however, can handle a glass of wine or two. He turns, leans against the counter and sips - it’s sweet, which is both a relief and a surprise. Peter prefers dry wines, but Stiles has always had a sweet tooth. He hates that he still knows that, that he’s hoarded the knowledge he gained that summer three years ago like a dragon hoards jewels.

Peter crosses his arms and settles to lean on the kitchen table; he can’t go very far, thanks to what Stiles is calling The Curse in his head, but the kitchen island is between them at least. A physical barrier, something else to put between them to deter Stiles from… well, strangling Peter is an option, but he won’t get very far, and in all honesty, Stiles is pretty damn tired of this animosity himself.

“This is a clusterfuck,” Peter finally says, and Stiles snorts in agreement. “What  _ did _ you tell him? For curiosity's sake.”

Stiles finally puts the glass down - he doesn’t actually drink much, is the thing. Once he turned twenty-one and it was legal, it lost the appeal, if he’s honest about it. Parties are one thing, and this glass of wine is more of a fidget than anything, something Stiles can focus on so he doesn’t have to focus on Peter and everything that hangs between them.

“That we got along for a few weeks, and then had an argument when I left for school again.” Stiles scrubs at his hair again. “So not too far from the truth.”

“Tricky thing, lying to werewolves.” Peter’s lost the smirk now, Stiles notices, but he can’t place the expression on the werewolf’s face. Peter’s good at that, hiding all of those real emotions away. “Just enough truth sprinkled in that your heart doesn’t give you away.”

Stiles looks at him for a long moment, envies the way that Peter can keep his face carefully blank, never giving anything away. Stiles can’t do that. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, always has. It’s a blessing and a curse. “I can’t hear your heartbeat, Peter,” he says, clipped. “So you can lie to me all you want, can’t you?”

Oh,  _ there’s  _ an emotion, a reaction, and Stiles feels the playing field level just a bit more. It’s minute, the twitch of Peter’s jaw and the narrowing of those piercing blue eyes, the way that Peter’s shoulders tense. Stiles can’t help pushing those buttons when it comes to Peter, can’t help but dig in as much as he can just to get to something  _ real _ behind all the twisted words and nonchalant masks. 

“I  _ never _ lied to you,” Peter growls, low and frustrated. Stiles revels in it.

“Is that what you tell yourself? Because you did.” 

Stiles crosses his arms - defensive, closed-off. He wants to leave, wants to walk out the damn door now that he’s ruffled Peter’s fur, but he’s got a magical fifty-foot leash that will essentially tase him the second he steps too far. Which means, of course, that he talks. Back against the wall? Stiles talks. Can’t shut up to save his life, so that just means they’re gonna hash this out right.  _ Fucking _ . Now.

“You lied every time you called me ‘sweetheart.’ You looked me in the eyes, and you called me ‘darling,’ and you called me ‘sweetheart’, and you  _ lied to me _ .” Stiles swallows, but he doesn’t look away from Peter’s face - he’s not the prey here, he never was, for all the posturing Peter’s done over the years. “You let me believe that it  _ mattered _ , Peter, and you never told me otherwise until you stopped taking my calls. Hell,” Stiles snaps out, “You didn’t  _ actually _ get around to telling me anything even then! You just ghosted me.” 

Peter doesn’t say anything to that. His face isn’t blank anymore, but Stiles still can’t place the expression. His breathing is even, controlled, but his entire body is a tense line. Whatever it is that Peter’s projecting, it’s intense, the full weight of Peter’s attention on Stiles almost unbearable and overwhelming. 

“So yeah,” Stiles finally manages, and damn him, but he’s actually got a lump in his throat. It’s hard letting out the shit he’s been holding onto for two or three years now. “You never told me a lie, not with your words. But you still lied to me by letting me think you gave a damn, and you know it.”

He pushes off the counter, goes past the island, and very carefully doesn’t look at Peter when he passes the kitchen table. His destination is the living room, but he doesn’t make it - Peter’s hand shoots out to curl around his wrist. The grip is loose enough that Stiles can shake it off if he wants, he can choose to walk away. Peter will let him, he thinks, and they will spend the night in an uncomfortable silence, exactly fifty feet away from each other at all times. 

Instead, he stops. Grits his teeth. Turns his head to look at Peter, but not his entire body. Metaphorically, he is one foot out the door here, and he hates himself a little for the fact that he can’t help but give Peter the chance to pull him back in.

“I was trying to do the right thing,” Peter says, soft and rough, eyes steady on Stiles’. Stiles has heard that tone before, wrapped in Peter’s blankets and Peter’s arms, listening to Peter tell him things that he’s sure no one else knows. This soft tone, almost like he’s afraid someone will overhear, this is Peter telling the truth - no smoke and mirrors here. “You were  _ nineteen _ , Stiles. You’d been in college for all of a single year. You were young, you still are. You don’t need to get tangled up with a werewolf on the wrong side of thirty-five.”

“I spent two months straight in this apartment.” It comes out a lot softer than he intended, a lot more wounded and small. Stiles wants to snap, wants to hold onto the anger and hurt that he’s been feeding since the end of that summer.

The truth is, though, that Stiles is  _ tired _ . Physically, he’s wired - the adrenaline from the magical orb hunt hasn’t worn off yet, the swirl of emotions from this thing between him and Peter finally coming to a head is overwhelming. But emotionally, Stiles is almost three years into pining for the guy he fell in love with during an ill-advised summer fling when he was nineteen. Stiles is  _ exhausted _ , and he knows what he wants here.

“I know  _ this apartment _ like the back of my hand, Peter,” Stiles goes on, and if a little of the hurt bleeds through into his voice, well, he’s too tired to stop it. “I know where you keep your glasses and your wine, I could have found a corkscrew too if I needed it. I know what your sheets feel like because I’ve been naked in them, I know how soft your stupid v-necks are because I’ve  _ worn them _ , I know that the  _ fucking _ water pressure in your  _ fucking _ shower is to die for especially when  _ you’re in it too _ .” 

He steps a little closer, turns his body toward Peter now, pulls that metaphorical foot away from the metaphorical door. Peter’s hand tightens on his wrist, not enough to hurt or even be uncomfortable. Firm, because Peter knows Stiles just like Stiles knows Peter, damn him, Peter knows all the little buttons to press to get right underneath Stiles’ skin in the best way possible.

“I know that you snore,” Stiles goes on, soft and intense, “and I know why your eyes are blue, and I know that you sing Def Leppard when you think no one can hear you, even though you always get the verse to ‘Foolin’’ and then mix it up with the chorus of ‘Animal,’ and you never get the opening to ‘Rock of Ages’ right.”

Peter pulls, fingers tight around Stiles’ wrist, and Stiles goes, lets himself be dragged even closer to stand in the vee of Peter’s legs where he spreads them to make room as he rests against the table. He knows where this is going now, can feel it rolling in with all the inescapable energy of a storm on the horizon, and, fuck, but Stiles isn’t strong enough to walk away from it. He’s impulsive and hedonistic, a mirror of Peter’s own profound love of indulgence and sensation. It’s why they were so damn good together, why they still have the potential to be a wildfire if Stiles lets this spark ignite, and Peter fans the flames. He wants to, is the thing. It’s all he’s wanted for three years, but this is the first time he’s actually figured out how to get from Point A to Point B.

“I was already tangled, Peter,” Stiles murmurs as Peter’s other hand curls around his waist. “I left in September already in love with you, and I’ve spent all this time trying to get over that. You pretty much ruined me for anyone else, you complete and total tool, and believe me, people tried.”

Peter’s grip tightens momentarily, a flash of something that looks a lot like jealousy crossing his features. “ _ I was trying _ ,” Peter says, and pauses when he releases Stiles’ wrist to drag his fingertips up Stiles’ arm instead. The flannel is between his fingers and skin, and farther up, a second layer of Stiles’ t-shirt sleeve. But it’s electric, still, Stiles finally getting the contact he’s been craving from the only person he wants. “I was trying,” Peter repeats, still in that low rumble, “to put my own desires aside and do what was best for  _ you _ . It isn’t my fault that you’re stubborn and couldn’t just hate me like everyone else.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.” Stiles reaches then, too, wraps his fingers in the fabric of Peter’s stupidly soft shirt at his waist. He  _ wants _ , desperately, but he’s hesitant still - is it the magic of the orb driving this for Peter? Stiles know how he feels, but will Peter ghost him again at the end of the summer? “If you - Peter, if you want to walk away from me, you do it for a good reason, you do it for  _ you _ . You don’t get to make my decisions for me and call it selfless.” 

He huffs out a short laugh, curls the corner of his mouth up into something that could be called a grin if it weren’t so damn tense. With that, it shifts. All it takes is Stiles looking at Peter just the right way - they’re the same height, and Stiles can slide forward just enough, fit  _ just right enough _ between Peter’s legs that he can change this desperate, ugly tension to another kind of desperate tension altogether. 

“You’ve never been selfless or giving a day in your life, Peter Hale,” Stiles murmurs.

Peter’s hands tighten, one around Stiles’ forearm and one curled around his hip. The werewolf tugs, pulls Stiles flush against him as he stands from the table. They’re the same height, alright, but Stiles doesn’t have the  _ presence _ that Peter has, and fuck if Stiles doesn’t love the way that Peter makes him feel like he’s smaller, like he’s the rabbit that the wolf is circling.

He’s not prey, he’s never been prey, but Stiles will run and let Peter hunt him all the same.

Bodies flush together, Peter’s hands holding Stiles to him in the kind of grip that makes it clear that Peter has no plans of letting Stiles go again. Stiles’ breath catches as Peter leans in, noses beneath Stiles’ jaw to press a maddeningly gentle kiss to the sensitive skin of Stiles’ neck, right below his ear. 

“I think you know just how  _ generous _ I can be, darling.” Peter breathes the words across the skin of Stiles’ neck, and then pulls back. His eyes are still that captivating, striking blue, but the gaze that he pins Stiles with is profound, and Stiles can’t look away. 

“Don’t call me that unless you  _ mean it _ ,” Stiles manages. “I can’t hear your heartbeat, Peter.”

He’s not going to back away, he knows. He can’t even bring himself to let go of where he’s clutching Peter’s shirt. But he’s going in eyes wide open this time, with the knowledge that, yes, Peter Hale has pretty much ruined him for anyone else in his lifetime, but also that Peter Hale is completely capable of breaking his heart again. 

“So don’t… not if you don’t mean it. If this isn’t something that’s going to matter, don’t let me think it will mean more than it does,” Stiles says, just above a whisper. Peter leans in again, and Stiles bares his neck, anticipating another kiss. “Please, I can’t -”

“Darling.” Peter’s voice ghosts over the shell of his ear, and Stiles shivers, thrills a little at the idea that this is a promise. “ _ Darling _ .”

Stiles moves, turns his head to meet Peter in a kiss, desperate and longing and filthy all at once. His hand comes up of its own volition as his eyes close, and he wraps his fingers around the back of Peter’s neck, like he’s trying to keep Peter there as long as he can just in case the werewolf has any notions of pulling away. He doesn’t, if the way that Peter’s hands are still curled around his arm and waist is any indication, even when the kiss breaks. Stiles lets his eyes flutter open again, lips parted because Peter specializes in the kinds of kisses that leave him breathless and light-headed. 

There’s a beat. 

Stiles drags his attention up from Peter’s mouth to his eyes, uncurls his hand from where it’s grasping Peter’s shirt just above his waist and brings it up to swipe his thumb across his own lower lip. He watches as Peter’s sharp gaze follows the motion, gives into the reflexive, nervous habit of licking his lips under the scrutiny, and watches as Peter follows that too.

Peter’s eyes snap back up to Stiles’. 

Oh shit,  _ that’s _ a look that goes straight to Stiles’ cock, one that has definitely made an appearance in his fantasies since that summer three years ago. He knows what it means, he knows that it’s full of wicked, filthy promises that Peter fully intends to follow through on, come hell or high water. The arousal that’s been building in Stiles, the curl of heat that he’s ignored in favor of airing all their dirty laundry, slams into him and punches a strangled moan from his throat. Peter surges forward and swallows it down, and Stiles doesn’t even realize that Peter’s shoving him backwards until he’s pinned between the kitchen island and the werewolf.

“You’re not fucking me on this counter again,” Stiles gasps out between presses of Peter’s open mouth on his, the breath of his words mingling with Peter’s. “Dorm beds are not kind to my back and I’ve been dreaming about your mattress for three - oh  _ fuck _ .”

Peter manages to work Stiles’ pants open, apparently not in the mood to strip Stiles slowly and savor the moment. He gets a hand in Stiles’ boxers and wrapped around Stiles’ half-hard cock, grins when Stiles latches onto the werewolf’s shirt with one hand and the lip of the island counter with the other.

“You’re right.” Peter pulls his hand away to start yanking Stiles’ pants and boxers down. 

“Of course I am, I’m always right,” Stiles says in a rush, before his brain catches up with his mouth. Peter gets his pants down his legs, and Stiles is momentarily glad that he didn’t wear his don’t-you-miss-my-ass-since-you-ghosted-me skinny jeans like he’d originally planned. “Wait, what am I right about now?”

“I’m not fucking you on this counter again.” 

Stiles raises his eyebrows and deliberately kicks his pants away. “If you’re not fucking me on this counter - which, again, you’re  _ not _ fucking me on this counter - then why am I stripping in the kitchen?”

Peter smirks and holds Stiles’ gaze as he drops to his knees. That smirk grows into a dirty little smile when Stiles’ breath catches in his throat, and Peter pushes the hem of the t-shirt Stiles is wearing up to drag his nails down Stiles’ abdomen.

“You’re stripping in the kitchen,” Peter starts, pauses to lean forward and nip at Stiles’ thigh, and then goes on after he’s gotten that surprised, aroused noise he likes to hear, “because I don’t want to wait even the short amount of time it will take to get you into my bed to get my mouth on you again.”

“ _ Oh _ .” Stiles blows out a shaky breath. He looks up at the ceiling, tries to get a handle on himself, and he really can’t do that with Peter on his knees in front of him. 

A sharp nip to his inner thigh draws that sharp sound from him again as he starts, and he looks back down at Peter out of instinct. It’s a mistake - he’s immediately caught by that piercing gaze again, drawn into the smug smile that curves over Peter’s features. 

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Peter says, curls his hands around Stiles’ hips and digs his fingers in, just a little bit. A little shiver goes through Stiles at the pet name. “You know I like being the center of your attention.”

Fuck, but Stiles has missed this. “Do something worth paying attention to, then,” he challenges, mouth dropping open in a gasp while curling into a smirk when Peter’s eyes flash that supernatural blue.

“Hands on the counter, sweetheart,” Peter says, mostly to the crease of Stiles’ thigh.

For a brief moment, Stiles considers riling Peter up with another smartass comment, or even going so far as to give Peter’s hair a gentle tug. Stiles has never met a boundary he didn’t want to push just to see how far he would get, and he loves the  _ reactions _ he can get out of Peter, if he remembers correctly. Peter likes to be in the driver’s seat in life, which very clearly carries over to the bedroom, likes to have that arrogant control over everything in his grasp. He pulled Peter’s hair  _ once _ , just to be a little shit, smack dab in the middle of a full scene, and Peter hadn’t let him come for hours.

It was amazing, to be pretty frank.

He must hesitate just long enough to give himself away, because he can feel Peter smile against his skin,  _ just close enough _ to Stiles’ cock that his knee-jerk desire to be a little shit wavers. “Be good for me, Stiles,” he murmurs, “and I’ll remind you just how  _ selfless _ and  _ giving _ I can be.” He punctuates with the prick of claws on the skin of Stiles’ hips and a very precise kiss in a very sensitive place.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes out, and his hands grip the edge of the counter of their own accord. Color him convinced, then. “I’ll be good.” He remembers how this goes, has dreamed of it more than a few times in three years. Hands where Peter wants them, eyes on Peter, don’t hold back on his babbling - play by Peter’s rules, Stiles knows, and Peter will blow his motherfucking mind.

Granted, if he does  _ break _ Peter’s rules, he will still blow Stiles’ mind, it will just take a lot longer and end up with a lot more begging, and Stiles will probably also cry. 

“I’ll be good,” Stiles repeats, darts his tongue out to wet his lips.

The great thing about having a lover with supernatural strength, Stiles has found, is that he really doesn’t have to depend on his own legs half the time. This comes in handy in these situations, as it very quickly becomes apparent that the only things that are going to keep Stiles on his feet are his desperate grip on the counter and Peter’s hands on his hips.

Peter’s mouth is  _ heavenly _ , hot and wet, tongue curling  _ just right _ . Stiles can’t help the noises - he did at first, all those years ago, and very quickly learned that Peter likes to hear him. He’s a little surprised, to be honest, that he falls right back into the unselfconscious ease, considering his encounters recently have been less appreciative. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says again, eloquent as ever. “Peter, this - this won’t take long  _ at all _ , oh my god.” He can’t even be embarrassed by it. Peter is very obviously not trying to drag this out, and it’s been so long that Stiles can’t last even if he tries. In what seems like no time at all, words are practically falling out of his mouth as he white-knuckles the counter, hips trying to roll against Peter pinning them effortlessly. 

Peter brings him right to the edge, apparently still knows how to manipulate Stiles’ body even better than Stiles does. He pulls away and Stiles whines, even as the werewolf stands and wraps a hand around Stiles’ cock instead, replacing the quick and dirty blowjob with teasing, too-slow tugs. He leans in, bites his way down Stiles’ neck and then drags his open mouth back up, grip on Stiles’ hip letting up so that Stiles can thrust into his hand.

“Would you like to know what I have planned, darling?” Peter asks, calm and even. It’s one of Stiles’ favorite things, the way that he can be absolutely wild with it, but Peter can hold it together. 

Stiles knows Peter wants to know he’s paying attention, even if it’s a rhetorical question, so he nods, jerky, and is rewarded with that deft, twisting grip that drives him crazy. 

“First, you’re going to come all over my hand, right here in the kitchen.” Peter’s lips are right against his ear, and it’s just insane how desperate Stiles can get for some dirty talk and a handjob, but well, here they are. “Then, I’m going to take you to bed, and I’m going to fuck you for  _ hours _ , Stiles, make up for all that lost time. I’ll open you up nice and slow, while you’re still soft and sensitive from  _ this _ .”

Stiles gasps out a moan as Peter suddenly picks up the pace, goes from teasing to actively trying to get Stiles where he needs to go.

“I might let you sleep by dawn,” Peter goes on, low and possessive. “Three or four orgasms from now, I think, you know I love you desperate and begging.”

“Ambitious,” Stiles says, breathless. “I think you overestimate my - ah, fuck,  _ Peter _ \- my, my stamina.”

Peter chuckles. “Oh no, sweetheart, you just  _ under _ estimate my determination.” And that’s a threat and a promise if Stiles has ever heard one. “It’s a damn good thing you can’t get more than fifty feet from me until we figure this magic out, because I don’t plan on letting you leave the bed for  _ days _ .”

“Please,” Stiles whimpers, and god, he knows he’s easy for Peter, but this is early even for him. “Please,  _ Peter _ .”

“Yeah, sweetheart, come for me.” It’s gentle, whispered into Stiles’ ear, but it still holds the weight of a command he’s expected to follow. It’s the idea that Peter  _ wants _ him to that sends him over, hands flying from the counter to clutch at Peter’s shoulders as he cries out and arcs in Peter’s hold. 

Another great thing about having a supernaturally strong werewolf lover is that Stiles doesn’t have to walk after mindblowing orgasms. Peter wipes his hand nonchalantly on the back of the flannel that Stiles is still wearing, like the asshole that he really is at heart, and then gets his hands under Stiles’ thighs to lift him. 

“Wrap around me,” Peter says, and Stiles manages, somehow, to get his legs around Peter’s waist and his arms around Peter’s neck, burying his face in Peter’s shoulder and catching his breath.

His back hits the bed, but he only has a moment to look up at Peter before the werewolf is flipping him over and wrestling his flannel down his arms and his shirt over his head. 

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, still hazy from his first orgasm. Key word there is first, because Peter very rarely makes empty promises  _ or _ empty threats, and his plan for the night was definitely a little of both. “You’ve ruined me for everyone else, you bastard. I am  _ ruined _ , do you hear me?”

He can  _ hear _ Peter smirk, even though his face is in the blankets. “Not yet I haven’t, but give me time.”

Late morning finds Stiles miraculously still able to walk - how, he’s honestly not sure - and back in Peter’s kitchen, wearing Peter’s stupid soft grey v-neck from the night before and a goofy, fucked-out grin. He’s got a cup of coffee in his hands, and he’s leaning back on the island, watching Peter throw together breakfast. Or, according to the clock, lunch. Brunch. Whatever.

He’s still pretty sex-drunk and loose-limbed, happy and relaxed in a way that he hasn’t been in awhile, so he’s pretty taken aback when Peter suddenly stiffens.

“Incoming,” Peter says, sounding resigned and exasperated.

Stiles wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “What?” he asks, a split second before he hears the apartment door open. “ _ Fuck _ , who else has a  _ key _ ?”

“Stiles!” It’s Scott, of course it’s Scott. 

Stiles groans, squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back, before making very, very sure that the kitchen island is between himself and the doorway that Scott is about to walk through.

“Hey!” Scott says brightly as he comes into the kitchen. “Your phone’s dead, dude, I was afraid you might have actually tried to kill each other.” He smiles at them. “It looks like you guys talked.”

“There was a fair amount of talking, yes,” Stiles hedges. 

“I wouldn’t call it conversation.” Peter hasn’t turned around, still paying attention to the stove, but Stiles can hear the smugness in his voice. “More like prayer, in my opinion. Some gratitude.”

“Well, you do like the sound of your own voice,” Stiles says, and grins into the rim of his coffee cup. 

“See!” Scott is positively beaming.

Scott is Stiles’ best friend, hand to god, but Stiles is honestly a little concerned that he hasn’t figured out that Peter’s not wearing a shirt, Stiles has a couple of really stellar hickies on his shoulders, and the apartment smells like sex. Maybe he needs to get Scott’s super-sniffer checked out or something. Is it allergy season? Can werewolves get allergies? 

“So this whole thing was probably, like, a blessing in disguise or something,” Scott goes on, and admirably ignores Peter’s snort. “You just needed something to push you guys together so that you could talk. Did you find some common ground?”

“Oh, we found some common ground,” Peter says to the stove, and Stiles can’t look at him, he’ll actually die if he does, considering that he’s already about to lose it and break into hysterical laughter.

“We certainly worked out our differences,” Stiles adds. “Spent some very good quality time together, I’d say. Top-notch.” 

_ There it is _ . Scott’s starting to look confused and vaguely alarmed, glancing around the apartment like his nose has finally clued him into what’s going on here.

“Common ground,” Peter says again. “And bed.”

“Counter.” Stiles gives up and puts the mug down on the island. “And the shower, this morning.”

“Oh my god,” Scott mutters, a little horrified. “You…  _ Stiles _ . Peter!” 

Stiles cackles, he can’t help it. “So, Scotty, about that summer you were in Argentina…”

Scott, for his part, still looks a little disturbed. At his core, though, he is Stiles’ best friend, and that supersedes everything else. “I’m really happy for you if it makes  _ you _ happy,” he says, going for supportive like the good friend that he is, and Stiles can appreciate that despite the grimace on Scott’s face. “You were pretty upset when we went back to school that fall, so I’m… glad you guys got it worked out. I just really never want to hear details. Please. Does this mean you guys will be okay until Deaton gets back in a couple of days to fix the whole magical bond thing?”

“We’ll be fine,” Stiles says. “I don’t think we’ll get three feet from each other, so fifty shouldn’t be a problem.”

“We’ll order in,” Peter adds. “You should probably call before you come over. Or knock, like a member of polite society.”

“Great,” Scott manages. He’s smiling, though, even if it’s his walked-in-on-Stiles-naked smile, where he’s trying very hard not to see anyone’s dick or think about his best friend in any sexual capacity whatsoever. 

“So, anyway -  _ no, Scott, stay over there! _ ” 

Scott freezes from where he’s started to come around the kitchen island, presumably to give Stiles a bro hug or a high five or something. He looks alarmed again.

Stiles clears his throat and motions to the counter between them. “My, uh. My pants are on  _ that _ side of the kitchen.”

“Right,” Scott says faintly, and reminds Stiles an awful lot of that ‘right in front of my salad’ gif set he saw forever ago. “I’m, uh. I’m gonna leave now. Have, uh, fun. Be safe?”

Peter finally turns around at that. “If you start lecturing me on safe sex practices, I will rip your throat out and take the Alpha power  _ back _ .”

That’s… well. Peter very rarely makes empty threats, Stiles thinks again. “Bye, Scott,” he says, and gives a little wave.

It’s definitely amusing to see Scott high-tail it out of the kitchen and out of the apartment. Stiles laughs under his breath and reaches for his coffee mug again, turns around to face Peter and the stove again to find Peter already looking at him. 

“Not our dirty little secret anymore,” Peter says, reaching to turn the stove burner off.

Stiles hums into his coffee. “I didn’t really ever want it to be,” he admits quietly. “You’re not going to ghost me again at the end of the summer, are you? I do still have one more year left.”

“Sweetheart.” Peter steps forward, crowds Stiles against the island much like he did just last night. This time, though, Stiles is half-naked in Peter’s shirt, wearing Peter’s marks on his shoulder, and that pet name sounds a whole lot like a promise. “I never make the same mistake twice.”

Stiles lets his coffee mug be pulled from his hand and set down on the island, safely out of the way. He loops his arms around Peter’s neck. “Say it again,” he says. “You know, since you mean it.”

“ _ Sweetheart _ ,” Peter growls, like it’s a dirty word, and Stiles shivers and leans forward to kiss him.

This time, Stiles  _ does _ let Peter fuck him on the counter.


End file.
